


Casualties in War

by Dangersocks



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Confrontations, Depression, Episode: e051 Rumbling, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Intervention, M/M, Tourniquet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-04
Updated: 2014-08-04
Packaged: 2018-02-11 17:25:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2076663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dangersocks/pseuds/Dangersocks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“There are casualties in war. Those who don’t make it back to a place of sound hopes and dreams...”<br/><i>― Christopher Hawke, Unnatural Truth</i></p><p>Cecil will tell you that he is fine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Casualties in War

_“There are casualties in war. Those who don’t make it back to a place of sound hopes and dreams. Some take on their demons alone. They are deceived into fearlessness and trampled by the hooves of their oppressor._

_Besides intervention, there is little justice for the thousands-upon-thousands hacked to pieces all around us._

_How dare we try to take life to the next level. Instead of merely protecting ourselves or scrounging up our next meal, we have the audacity to hope for something more—a witness for our lives who will survive alongside us.”_

*********

_“Those teetering on madness hold keys to doors you know nothing about. You must ask yourself if these rooms are worth visiting—if in the end life would have made more sense having been in them.”_

\- both quotes: Christopher Hawke, Unnatural Truth

*************************

 

The desert is hot, hot, _hot_. The interior of Carlos’ economic Coup is hot, hot, _hot_ , hot.

Cecil climbs into the driver’s seat, saved by his pants from pleather scalding, and he shuts himself in with a click of a door. The key is too familiar, sliding into the ignition. The engine purrs to life, the air conditioner whirring to fight the stifling heat. It will take time before the equilibrium of too hot shifts to bearable. Regardless, the radio host pulls on a lever beside his chair, propelling it back so he can lie in the shelter of his boyfriend’s car and wait for a phone call.

He could be waiting for a while.

Exhausted, he doesn’t care. He’s got the day free and this is where he’ll stay.

He drives the Coup now, having gained permission since Carlos cannot return for it.

Carlos is not here.

Already, Cecil knows the habits of the vehicle. He understands the mileage and the weight of the steering wheel. He’s fled horrors in this car since he’s started driving it. He’s had to move items from the trunk to make room for at least one body, after being pulled over by agents of a Vague Yet Menacing Government Agency.

The moved items had clinked with glass. Beakers in holders, not yet used. Perhaps never to be used. He had tried to swallow back the dread at the thought, telling himself that it was fear of the threatening men and women in suits, and the unmoving black bag they had wanted him to haul to a place in the middle of nowhere.

The good thing was that Cecil had an additional excuse to drink that night. Having an excuse makes it easier.

Cecil knows the car very well now, and it is knowledge he would willingly surrender to have Carlos back.

He lies in the dry heat of the car, thinking and not thinking about things. He has added a charger to the cigarette lighter so that his own phone never dies. He waits, mouth dry and insides hollow. He waits.

If he thinks that it has been too long, sometimes that spurs the phone into action. If he decides that he will never hear a response, the universe usually works to prove him wrong. It has been too long, Cecil thinks. It has been too --

The answer comes.

A sudden noise startles the prone radio personality into jumping. Only, it is not the needed buzz of his cellphone.

It comes again, knuckles on glass.

“Cecil?”

Sitting up and squinting at the silhouette framed by the cruel sun, Cecil asks, “Who?”

“It’s Earl,” introduces the shape. And indeed, it is. Casting shadows into the window stands the Scoutmaster, looking very different from when Cecil had last seen him. There is no uniform, proudly bearing badges and insignias. There is instead a long-sleeved Spider Wolves shirt and jeans, with an imperfectly folded apron tucked under an arm. Earl’s hair has grown out, no longer perfunctorily kept. It clings greasily to his brow in the heat. His eyes are shadowed. His lips are flat and not upturned.

“Yes, Earl, um…” Cecil stammers, caught staring. But then again, he has every right to stare. They have not spoken in months, though not for lack of trying. Cecil has made numerous page hits on the Applebee's website and it is not like he can just walk into the restaurant where he knows Earl cooks without having a reservation.

The other’s brow rises, the only indication that Earl has reacted. Cecil remembers that there is a barrier between them and mumbling is not easily heard. He straightens and pushes at the button for the window. It relents, letting warm air back in and cool air out.

“Sorry,” concedes the radio host. “Uh, can I help you?”

Earl stares, drawing back, which makes Cecil feel better. Which doesn’t leave him feeling as trapped. Then the Scoutmaster holds up a plastic bag. “I’m supposed to give this to you.”

Blinking, Cecil regards the item carefully. It is a white plastic bag, moderately sized. It holds something square and dark. It squeaks as Earl holds it out. “What is it?”

“Lunch,” instructs the other. “We had leftovers in the kitchen.”

Cecil does not reach out, but his insides do churn at the offering. He hasn’t eaten today and his biological obligation knows it. “What’s the occasion?”

Glancing aside, up the street, Earl sighs. “Cecil, take the food. You haven’t been eating and…”

“I’ve been eating,” interrupts Cecil. The words come on their own, hot like the pavement that is wavering behind his unexpected companion. “Why would you even imply --”

A hand slaps down on the hood of the car. “Station Management implies,” Earl announces into the silence. “Look, they came into Tourniquet this morning and invaded the kitchen. While we hid under tables, bracing ourselves with frying pan shields, we were instantly aware of their concerns. Cecil, they’re worried about you.”

“I…” He has nothing to say to that. There have been notes pushed through the door, but the bleeding heart inkblots on the pages have meant nothing to the host or his interns. He had learned that they had left their office that very morning -- losing an intern and a service technician in the process -- but nobody questions Station Management when they do things. “They...went to Tourniquet?”

“Yeah, Cecil. They did.”

“Why Tourniquet?”

Earl shrugs, rocking back on his shoes. “I don’t know. But my boss wasn’t impressed and I really need this job, Cecil. Look. Take the food. It’s really good. Eat more meals that aren’t liquid breakfast, and...well...if you need to talk…”

Cecil reaches over, taking the plastic handles in numb fingers. “You made this?”

Earl scratches at his collar. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “It’s not the fanciest. One of my earlier attempts at sous vide steak with lady fingers, which wasn’t fit for serving. But it’s still good. I held back on the revelations so you shouldn’t have much of a hideous awareness. I’m still working on those so…”

“I’m sure it’s fine,” Cecil dismisses, drawing the bag in. “Well...if that’s all…”

“Right,” Earl hums, releasing the top of the car. Shifting away. “But make sure you eat it. I mean...eat. Just...take care.”

“Yeah,” states the host. “I will. Um, it was good to see you.”

“Sure,” Earl nods, lingering. Waiting.

Cecil waits too, hinged on the departure. The thermal air may be feeding on the prolonged awkwardness. Certainly that is something thermals do, Cecil thinks. If his boyfriend were here…

He starts to say, “Well, good-bye.”

Earl starts to say, “If you don’t like the steak…”

They stop, air trapped in lungs and eyes lost on other things to look at.

Finally, the Scoutmaster sighs. “I’m sorry. Cecil, I know it’s rough. Many of us are worried, and you have to make that effort to take care of yourself.”

“Yes, good. I’m fine,” Cecil declares. “Don’t you worry about a thing, Earl. I’ll start having breakfast again and I’ll tell Station Management I’m over it and…”

“You won’t,” counters the other. He’s shaking his head, lips thin as they press against his teeth. “You’ll think about it, but you’ll slip.”

“Oh, like you get it…”

“Yeah? Maybe I do.”

“This is a pretty small crowd for an intervention, Earl.”

“I’m not trying to make this a big deal, but you can’t live off of alcohol and huddling.”

“I don’t.”

“You all but announced that you did on your show!”

 

“That was horoscopes!” 

“Oh, and I wouldn’t read between the lines?” scoffs Earl. “I’ve got that Subversive Radio badge, too. And frankly, you were being obvious.”

“So this isn’t about Station Management barging into your workspace?” accuses the radio host, tossing the bag into the next seat.

Earl cranes his neck up to the sky. “It’s _that_ , too. Cecil, I’m trying to be nice about this.”

“This is nice?” Cecil gasps. “We haven’t spoken in _months_ and the first thing you want to do is criticize how I choose to deal with this? My boyfriend is a hero. And even though we did everything right...”

“Bad things happen, Cecil. You _know_ I know that. And nobody is saying Carlos _isn’t_ a hero!” The cook offers his palms, supplicating but in no way being meek about it. “And I _am_ playing nice. If you really wanted an intervention full of more people, I’d just take your cellphone. You know I could. I’d ring up Carlos and I will fill him in myself.”

Cecil’s hand drifts to where his device sits, protecting it. He’s very aware of how quick the other man can be. “Don’t.”

“You’ve told him you’re fine,” Earl challenges. “He has no idea, does he?”

“I _am_ fine!”

“Well, good. Good then,” sighs the chef. “Take care of yourself and I won’t have to do anything.”

Cecil swallows. He clenches his jaw and clings to the promise that this conversation will soon be over with. It is less a conversation and more of a confrontation. His heart drums behind his locked tendons. It pounds behind his ears. He is dry and faint. He is angry and he wants it to be because of Earl.

The other man does not look any better.

“I’ll be fine,” Cecil repeats, articulating the words. “Don’t worry about Station Management coming back to Tourniquet. Don’t worry about your new job. And hell, Earl, you’ve always got the Scouts.”

Earl’s lips twitch. The man nods, once. “Yeah…”

“You are with them,” Cecil confirms. “Right?”

A set of shoulders shrug, still chiseled in a habit of strict and refined posture. “Not right now, Cecil.”

“Really?” It is surprisingly easy to turn the topic around. Cecil clings to the new subject because it is no longer about himself. “You’ve always been a Scout.”

Nodding slowly, Earl returns to watching the end of the street. “People change. I’ve...changed. It’s complicated.”

The afternoon silence stretches between them, the air conditioner rattling. Earl looks close to finding something to say, and Cecil feels close to a question. Earl hugs the rumpled apron closer to his side and Cecil’s stomach keens, loud enough to be noticed.

“Did...you want to get in and, well, I can roll up the window. It’s cool in here. I’ll eat. Um...we can catch up?”

Earl peers longingly at the horizon, but does eventually nod. “Sure. Yeah. Okay.”

The door lock pops as Cecil depresses the relevant button. He knows he wouldn't have to, what with the badges Earl possesses. Locks aren’t an obstacle to Scoutmasters, though it is courteous to let the other in. Maybe those skills are gone if Earl isn’t practicing them any longer.

Cecil retrieves the food from the seat and Earl slides in. He behaves as Cecil had first done so after taking over the Coup, wary of damaging or spoiling the interior of another’s property. The door shuts. The window whirs as it seals them in. The two men sit in Carlos’ car without Carlos being present.

To remedy the delicate quiet, Cecil pulls out a black styrofoam container and a fork. “Want to tell me about it?”

Earl stares ahead. “Not particularly. Though at some point I should. I’ve almost worked up the nerve to tell my roommate about it.”

“You have a roommate?” Cecil asks, popping open the lid and finding a generous portion of protein, once arranged artfully before it had been jostled rudely aside. There are tiny stars and moons on the nails of the lady fingers. “It looks good.”

Earl snorts, smile wan. “I’m getting better. Cooking on camping trips is very different than in a kitchen. Especially one like Mason’s. And yeah, I have a roommate. He’s the one who hooked me up with the job. I don’t think you know him. He hasn’t been in Night Vale for long.”

Cecil nods, digging about for a knife. Earl supplies it from by his feet. It must have fallen from the bag when Cecil had unceremoniously set it aside. He regrets behaving so angrily, politely asking, “How did you meet?”

“I...uh...didn’t have a place when I got back. And with all of the StrexCorp rebellion happening, it was confusing. Everything was...confusing. I met him during the chaos and I was able to help him with the fight against the corporation. Afterwards, he let me crash at his place since he’s rarely there. And when he found out I was struggling with finding a job, he got me the interview at Tourniquet. He’s been there for me, usually when I least expect help but when I really need it. He thinks I should get back into Scouts, too. I just...right now I can’t.”

“But it’s possible?” The steak is good. The food is very good. Cecil speaks around a mouthful, letting his years of interviews cover for him. His mouth waters and his insides clamour for the sustenance. He’s aware he may be sick from the sudden introduction of rich food after so many missed meals, though that may also be the dawning awareness Tourniquet is known for. The promised insight is stifled, but still lingering at the peripherals of Cecil’s thoughts.

Earl leans his head into the headrest, looking tired. “Maybe it’s possible to go back,” he concedes. “You love something so much, and you devote your time and energy towards it for so long...and suddenly it turns on you. I never thought that being a Scoutmaster would be easy, but...I wasn’t ready. I thought I was, and I was wrong. And I still don’t know how I’m back or what that means now, but right now I can’t wear the uniform.”

“And you don’t know how you got back?” presses the radio host. Most of the food is gone, but he still feels as if he could eat again.

He considers asking Earl for help with that, afraid that he’ll return to his home and find the kitchen too empty to face. That feeding himself will become a chore again, not worth his time. Perhaps they can do this -- shared lunches and talking. He had not known that Station Management had noticed his spiral into apathy and liquid medication. He had not imagined Earl to be the type to give up his life’s calling out of fear.

The awareness from his meal is blooming in the back of his mind where the dangerous thoughts usually lurk, half lost and half found after re-educations. After run-ins with hooded figures or from looking too long at the Dog Park. Only, this oncoming cognizance doesn’t fill Cecil with dread.

Earl shifts in his seat, taking Cecil’s garbage and putting it back in the bag. He’s looking at the radio host for some kind of opinion on the food as he answers, “It was a bad place and a desperate escape, and I think I forgot out of necessity. Though I suspect that my roommate has some knowledge and he’s just waiting for me to ask. Which is nice of him, but…”

“Forgetting is easier?” Cecil offers.

“Not eating is easier, too,” Earl agrees, pointing at Cecil. “But you should still eat. And...I will have to eventually remember.”

Cecil lets a grin flutter across his face. “You came back from the impossible. Carlos can too.”

“Yes,” Earl nods, taking Cecil’s shoulder. It is the first time they’ve touched since before things went wrong for both of them. “Yes, he can. And you need to know we’re all hoping for that. Everyone wants you two together and happy and safe.”

Cecil breathes deeply, hoping that the stinging in his eyes is just a part of the food reacting. Earl squeezes his arm before withdrawing it, carefully watching. “Are you going to be okay? Is...is it that hideous revelation? I may have...been mistaken with my estimate.”

Choking back a sense of grief and an urge to cry, Cecil still feels a buzz of potential. A trill of excitement. There is an awareness but...it is not yet tangible. And he isn’t afraid of it. “I think...I don’t know.”

“Sorry,” says the cook, looking concerned. No…

_No_. It had been something Earl had been saying before. Cecil reflects frantically, emotionally spent already and still brimming with some kind of…

Hope. It’s…

“Keep talking!”

Earl frowns. “Keep talking about what?”

“What you were before…” Cecil rolls his hand, trying to rewind them with the motion. “Your return. No...no, the roommate! Earl, tell me about _him._ ”

Shifting to balance his bag on his lap with his apron, the other man shrugs. “Uh, he’s big. Comes and goes at strange hours. I mean, I rarely ever see him though he’s turned up when I needed someone. Doesn’t own a lot of stuff. I’d say he’s pretty strong. Guy believes in mountains...”

It’s so close -- the enlightenment, the crashing revelation. Cecil hopes this emotion is not madness as he descends on him. “What’s his _name,_ Earl?”

And Earl answers. “Doug. His name is Doug.”

Cecil knows. Cecil absolutely knows.

“Earl, this is the best thing I have ever eaten. And now we have to go to your place. _Now_.”

Like a Scientist, for once, Cecil is going to be fine.

**  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
**

**Author's Note:**

> A grand offer of thanks to [M Moonshade](http://archiveofourown.org/users/M_Moonshade/pseuds/M_Moonshade) for the edit.
> 
> And for everyone lately who has helped me through my slump: thank you. July was terrible. July is done, now. I try very hard to remember that no matter how bleak things seem, it is important to keep going. You never know what revelations are just around the corner unless you're there for them.
> 
>  **You** , dear Reader, deserve happiness and security. **You do.**
> 
> Please don't give up.
> 
> (Toy Towers will update soon. The chapter is finished, just waiting on an "all-clear" from the editing corner. It is longer than the last few chapters. Thanks for the patience and support.)


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